Bomb Da Base
by virtualailee
Summary: This is Liberty City. This is a mission. Incompetence will lead to mission's failure and then... your termination. Based on said title in Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas with a slight twist.


Finally.

A rather fidgety man was striding hurriedly to a yellow taxi. He had his cap inclined forward as to conceal his ashen face. Everything about the way he wriggled spelt "anxiety". Or was it "terror"? He should stop glancing here and there as though anticipating a gang member jumping onto him. He should stop slouching and hunching while taking quick paces because it made him stand out in the slow going crowd of oblivious civilians.

Well, to Claude, that guy looked like a forty ton missile half-buried in the Sahara. Very noticeable from afar.

Maybe he was an idiot after all.

That would make the next few minutes a cinch…

The fluorescent lights installed right below the sign board "Sex Club 7" went out with a pop. The man, cap and all, jumped somewhat and looked surreptitiously about him. He seemed to be mumbling something. Perhaps it was just his way of reassuring that everything was going to turn out all right.

Coward.

The man wrapped his jacket aroud his shivering body more tightly. Tilting his cap until it covered the upper part of his visage, he approached the still awaiting taxi.

"Yes, sir? Where to?" asked Claude with a carefree tone so unlike his original voice.

The man plopped himself on the back seat of the vehicle and closed the door hastily. He was still tossing conspicuous glances outside of the window. Claude could barely able to refrain himself from throttling the "customer" for behaving pathetically.

He rested his arm on the passenger's seat next to him and twisted his neck to face the man.

Forcing a smile, he asked again, "Sir, where d'you want to go?"

The man gasped and fiddled his thumb even more frantically. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the shabby coat's sleeve.

"Yeah, heard ya the firs' time, kid… Portland Docks… take me there …"

And he leant uncertainly against his seat.

Claude faced the windscreen again and peered into the misty night. He put in the gear and accelerated the car to its destination.

"Portland Docks, roger that, sir," he quipped, smiling inwardly - maliciously.

_Even if he isn't the rat, I'll probably kill him anyway… disgusting creature…_

A quartet of traffic light glared red. As the taxi came to a halt, the driver tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. His mind wandered. Alert, but not quite aware of the man's constant shifts and shudders. He could not believe how much the Mafia was willing to pay just to confirm where that dratted man's loyalty lay. He was not complaining of course; the handsome amount of remuneration was to pay for his ammo as they do not come in cheap anymore.

But really… this is absurd, he thought.

Claude glanced at the man's reflection by adjusting the rearview mirror.

He was sucking on his thumb.

Revolted, Claude averted his attention to the ongoing traffic when the green light illuminated the night, signaling the vehicles to proceed ahead. The grouchy voice of his boss, Leone Salvatore, rang inconveniently in his mind.

"_There might be a stinkin' spy amongst the Mafia. And we cannot afford having a sneak in here, can we? He usually takes a cab home. You do what you have to do and see whether old Curly Bob is a stanch Mafia or not. And if he ain't…"_

_Waste him._

The taxi sped swiftly in the nippy air.

"Sir, if you don't mind, why are you going to the docks at midnight?" Claude asked in the fake honeyed voice. The man stirred feverishly. Apparently, he was not the type who was accustomed to entertaining the idea of being asked of his doings by a stranger.

"Kid, you keep your nose outta my hair. Just… just get me there, all right?"

Claude stepped harder into the acceleration pedal.

"If you say so."

He also remembered a fragment of something told by a source over some tequila in a local pub. Unfortunately, he did not register much of his words as the person was already drunk and red in the face. All he could gather was the existence of someone devious in the cohort; that person spent a lot more than he earned while he was more of a nobody in the higher ranked Mafia members. So naturally, the questionable source of vast income tweaked the Mafia's interest.

But, he might have mistaken the blurry garbles for that news. The man at the back seat, no matter how Claude looked at him, appeared very broke and distressed. His frayed T-shirt was visible beneath the weather-worn overcoat. His boots were holed in places and his jeans were patched at the knees. How rich could this man be?

Never judge a book by its cover, Claude.

He gritted his teeth. He needed no reminders - he had learnt it the hard way.

The wide plank bearing the title "Portland Docks" towered from inside a stretch of wire fences. The taxi slowed down until it stopped in front of the wide opened gate.

The security guard was no where in sight.

"Okay, sir. We're here."

He rummaged around his pockets and pushed a crisp $500 into the driver's hand.

"Keep the change. Spend it wise, ya hear me."

Though awkward, Claude took it nevertheless. When the elderly man was about to exit the taxi, he yanked him by the sleeves.

"Kid, I'm sorta in a hurry so -"

"Sir," Claude crossed him, "I don't know what you're doing here at this hour, but please be careful okay?"

The man opened his mouth. Unable to utter a word, he closed it again. Instead, he gave the younger one a dismal smile.

"Yeah."

He left.

Claude sank more comfortably to his seat and unfastened the safety belt. He fished out an earpiece and inserted it into his ear canal. Straining for sounds, he deftly loaded a shotgun and switched off the taxi's headlights. Then, he squinted into the darkness…

Waiting…

And waiting…

"Ah, so you've decided to show up after all, Bobby."

So he was not alone. Someone else was also present.

Claude listened more attentively. The buzzes of that electronic bugging device were hindering his hearing.

Damn! That man should just stand still and leave his sleeves alone!

"Well, well, well. We are right to choose you instead of your other… colleagues. Very brave indeed…"

Claude tensed somewhat. That voice… he knew that voice… that cold, drawling manner of speech… It belonged to that blasted woman. Or was it just some pieces of his imagination?

"Spill it Bob."

He could perceive someone clearing his throat. And then, a quivering whisper with a hint of submission was heard.

"The Mafia… they're going to launch a -"

The transmittance was off for a couple of seconds. Claude swore.

"- so it would be… would be wise… to… err, prepare beforehand."

An unknown person clapped triumphantly. Gleefully, that person spoke, "Good. Very good indeed! For the Cartels, of course. This will guarantee the Mafia's downfall."

That was it. Curly Bob was a rat after all.

Now, all that was left to do was…

Claude drove as quietly as the engine would permit into the docks. The street lamps were not on and he could not rely on the taxi's headlights. He pressed on, searching for any random movements in the shadows blanketing the area.

A beam of light fell onto the cemented ground.

_Got you._

The whereabouts of the three beings he intended to murder was revealed. The spot of light disappeared as soon as a cry of desperation emanated from a crook.

"You stupid garbage! Anyone could've seen the torchlight!"

It was too late. Claude had noticed it. And they would have to pay dearly for this foolish blunder - he would make sure of it.

He gripped the steering wheel more firmly and pressed on cautiously in case there were pillars and other miscellaneous obstacles blocking his way. Patient he may be though, the idea of meeting face to face with the cause of his downfall just boiled his blood. As temper rose, maneuvering as noiseless as night proved to be impossible.

CRASH.

_Damn._

"Shit! We've got to beat it!"

"Go! I'll back you up!"

"Good! Miguel! Come on!"

_Miguel…_

_You son of a -_

He sped about the illusive corner and braked in the nick of time to avoid from running over a dumpy figure standing precisely before his dented taxi. The glum form yelled, "You've got to get through me if -"

His words were overridden by the roaring of the engine.

_You ask for it._

"NO!"

Claude accelerated and a heavy lump smashed into the bonnet. There was a very short yelp of surprise… or pain - he could not distinguish it, not that he really cared - and he drove forward to pursue the leaders of the Columbian Cartel.

But they were long gone.

There were no tracks of them to follow, no clues as to where they might be heading…

He had lost them.

Claude inhaled deeply and clenched his fist.

_There's always tomorrow._

He reversed and pulled up neatly beside the mangled corpse.

"Hn, next time in Hell, if you don't wanna be caught, try tone it down a bit."

The tyres switched course and Claude made his way to the docks' exit.

_Filth._

And he was back on the main road.

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"Heh, dude! You come back early."

"Mission accomplished."

"Yeah, yeah… as always, ain't it?"

"Tell Salvatore the rat has been silenced."

"Sure, sure… Oh, your check has been banked in earlier this evening. I think Salvatore really likes you."

"I'll… uh… come by later. Tomorrow."

"Yeah. You okay, dude?"

"Bye."

Claude hung up and slumped exhaustedly on his bed; the mattress arched threateningly under his weight. He rubbed his temple before downing two aspirins. The mild headache started ever since he reached his hideout, and he was grateful of it; being a professional hired assassin, it was compulsory, if not necessary to be in top form for every single mission. Maybe the temporary insomnia was getting to him. He should try and lie down, relax, and have a good night sleep…

For once...

In days…

"_Get the case and run for it!"_

_A man seized an unguarded black suitcase and ducked as the robbers open fire. Bullets pelted furiously above his very head; he crept behind tables and furniture to be out of harm's way. Securing the case, he chanced a peep from behind the wall._

_BANG._

_A stray bullet missed his nose by mere inches._

_Heart thumping madly, he analysed the area and calculate their situation. The police were raining them with gunshots and somehow managed to seal off the bank's main entrance. They did not plan to make a getaway through that door obviously, but by guarding the door, the cops would also gain the upper hand of manipulating altitude by means of the marble staircase. The wooden tables which served as the robbers' fort actually obscured their sight and aim. Once the enforcements launched attack from upstairs right above them, the only way of evading certain death was to creep and hide below the tables. Should the table sturdy enough to be AK-47-proof, the police from in front would corner them and then finish them off anyway._

_Or they could just blast the bolted fire exit a couple of meters away with grenades and get out of there… if they survived the bullets and the explosion, that is._

_Either way - Claude weighed their odds of escaping - they were toast._

"_Damn it!"_

_Just when the robbers thought they were done for, their one way of survival swung open; someone had unlocked and detached the chains of the fire exit. A slender woman sporting dark brown tresses beckoned the gang members into the recently opened door._

"_Move it! Hurry, damn it!"_

_Firing a couple of shots above his shoulder, Claude ran to the door as the last of his underling snipped past the exit. The woman who saved them was waiting a short distance away._

_At least a dozen more of men clad in Hawaiian shirt and hats with crocodile teeth on their heads grouped at either sides of the door. All of them had M-16s slung onto their backs and shotguns readied in their thick hands._

"_They'll take care of the rubbish inside. Let's go."_

_She turned her heels and ran off. He followed suit._

"_The money, do you have it?"_

_Swiftly, she looked back at the man. Her eyes caught the briefcase he was carrying. She grinned, satisfied._

"_Good. A Cartel Cruiser is parked at the junction. Get in and the bloke will drive you back."_

_A Cartel Cruiser? That was not right, he mused. Why would she use their gang car? Especially in this tiding… they would risk exposure by just being there when the National Bank got hit. The police and the Cartels had never been on good terms. They would hunt for every Cartel in town for sure! This was plain reckless… if not suicidal._

_The woman turned left and vanished from his vision._

_He could not waste anymore time. He had got to tell her._

"_Catalina, don't use the Cruiser. It's risky and -"_

_A gun barrel pressed into his chest. The woman who held the weapon sniggered sardonically._

"_Catalina, what are you -"_

"_Sorry, baby."_

_She pulled the trigger._

_For a split second, black, formless patches blotch his sight. The next thing he became aware of was warm substances spreading on his front. Blood oozed steadily from his wound._

"_What the -"_

_Legs too frail to support his body, the man sagged to the ground - eyes widened in utter devastation. The brutal truth of betrayal hurt him a lot more than the shot. His vision wavered and his grip on the suitcase's handle declined._

_The woman watched the blood-soaked form coldly._

"_You're just a small time…"_

_She squatted somewhat and swat his icy fingers from the case. Picking it up gingerly, she sneered scornfully before strutting away._

_Without so much of a glance at the bleeding man, she mounted a stationary motorcycle and sped off. The alley immersed into deadly quietness as the last few sounds of shootings ceased. Only the squeaking of miserable rats told him he had not gone deaf. He lay there, clinging desperately to life… wrath and hatred fuelled his will to continue breathing…_

"_Shit."_

Claude jerked awake uneasily from sleep. He was sweating all over and his heart was beating like a 100 meter sprint runner who had just crossed the finishing line. Peeling the slightly drenched sheets from his body, he got up and retrieved his digital watch.

"Oh no."

It was already noon.

RING. RING.

His phone. Someone was on the line. But… where is the phone?

He flung his pillows and blankets and almost upsetting the mattress in search of it. It sounded so close…

It must be around here somewhere.

RING. RING.

"Come on!"

A glimmer of something luminous on the floor by the bed made him dive for it. He flipped the mouthpiece open and answered the call.

"Yo!" he heard a greeting.

Claude settled in the armchair.

"What?"

"Wrong one. What took ya so long to pick up this damn phone?"

Claude sandwiched the device between his cheek and his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt.

"Why do you call?"

"All righ', all righ'… no chit-chat, huh? Fine… the boss is itching to reach ya. Said he needs someone to take care of somethin' big for 'im. Dunno what's all about, but… I'm supposed to tell ya that."

"Thanks."

He pocketed the cellular phone and entered the dimly lit bathroom.

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"What is your business here?"

Claude had just arrived at Salvatore's mansion. It was a luxurious residence; expensive bonsai and imported shrubs heightened the already scenic landscape. It appeared to belong to any other old man who had retired from years of hard labour and looking forward to cultivating plants in his past time. The only thing that gave away his actual reputation was the number of Mafia Sentinels gleaming impressively at the manicured lawn.

This place was the house of Leone Salvatore, leader of the formidable Mafia.

"Hey, kid. I'm talkin' to ya. Don't go spacin' out on me. I said what's your business here?"

Claude stared an inch off from his left ear.

A tall, intimidating stature loomed behind him. He gripped the talking guard's shoulder and shoved him aside gently. There was a lighted cigar in his mouth.

"Ah, is there a problem here, gents?"

The guard was taken aback by the sudden emergence of Luigi Salvatore. But he regained his composure fast; his facial expression turned bland again.

"Sir," he started, "this man is trying to gain entry into -"

"Now, now," Toni chuckled heartily. His vice-grip on the guard's shoulder tightened that he winced and blurted out, "I'm just protecting the boss from possible attacks -"

"Really?" Toni relinquished his grasp on the horrorstruck man. He stepped half a pace back and massaged his bruised shoulder.

"Well, you are advised to recognize the face of the visitor. Claude Speed is not to be treated this way. He's an honourable guest here."

"Yes, of course, sir. Of course. My apologies."

"Come in," Toni added silkily. The smoking man assumed his genial façade and spoke lightly along the walk.

"Ah, Claude… just the man for this job. Father tried to contact you the whole morning. Heck, he even ordered the lesser ones to get hold of you. He wanted the job done by noon… but it is noon… well, better late than never I'll say. What are you busy with by the way?"

They ascended a short flight of stone carved stairs.

"Nothing much. I was at home all morning."

Toni laughed again. "I see… that's good to know."

"I'm not carrying out missions for other gangs."

Toni halted in his tracks. He seemed a little restless albeit the unfading typical smile of his.

Claude almost expected this reaction but to actually witness Toni acting it out was pretty unnerving. The Mafia had always prioritized family relationship and devotion. That was the one reason why he readily accepted the organization's offer to be one of them. They stand by each other. They did not stab their relatives in the backs - they looked out for them.

"That's a little sudden. See, I'm not accusing you of -"

"It's nothing."

Claude shrugged and resumed walking up the stairs until he reached the spacious hall.

Why the unsettle-ness? If the Salvatore decided to terminate him, they could have done it without a fuss. He was alone, always alone. There would be no supporters, no assistants, no foreign power to back him up should he turn traitor to the Mafia…

No foreign power…

If he did not serve other gangs, it only meant that he had no chance whatsoever to establish any acquaintances with them, ensuring him clawless and meek before the Mafia.

Luigi called from behind.

"Father's waiting by the pool. You should look for him there."

He then waved and joined a small assembly of men donning black tuxedos under a mango tree.

Claude looked on. If there was one word in the world which could summarise his thoughts best, it would be confused.

_What's going on here?_

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Clear water like sapphire sparkled enchantingly as the golden ray reflected on its rippling surface. An aged man with grayish hair was clambering out of the swimming pool. Claude walked nearer to him.

"Oh, you're here!"

He dried himself with a towel and sat on a reclining chair shaded by a large umbrella. Claude stood in front of him, his hands tucked inside his jacket's pockets. Leone sipped his glass of cocktail and appraised the young man momentarily. Blank eyes, expressionless visage, cold demeanour, callous heart… this man was as dangerous as his looks suggested.

Leone crossed his legs.

"The Cartels are up to something big. They're producing SPANK on one of their ships and planning to sell them on the streets by a fortnight. We tried to sabotage their economy but by not affecting and err… displeasing the other gangs, there's nothing much to do. This SPANK will make them king here in Liberty City! You and I don't want it to happen, do we?"

Leone handed over an envelope which Claude took and opened.

"Inside are documents and notes. Unnecessary to me but since they're given by the sources… I might as well pass them over to you. There's the ship's registration number and stuff. You're given free reign here. I want to see it at the bottom of the pier."

Claude prepared to make a move when someone gripped him painfully at his forearm. He turned and found himself staring squarely at Leone's fury eyes. The older man advanced dangerously until he could count every freckle on the assassin's coarse features.

"Make sure you get it right," he hissed.

Claude yanked his arm from the old man. Leone smirked and took several steps back from the still impassive man. Without further delay, Claude turned his back onto the now sitting Leone and walk as fast as he could to the car.

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Claude pulled up by the hospital. He needed to find the least messy approach to succeed this job. See it at the bottom of the pier… it was easier said than done. He skimmed the telephone book in his wallet. If he was lucky, he would stumble upon a name of somebody who actually had the capability of sinking a Cartel ship. Salvatore might be messing with him… assigning him hard-to-accomplish missions… He actually could pull it off, really, but a slight flaw in his own part forced him to opt for other more affordable alternative.

RING. RING.

Claude flipped the mouthpiece harshly.

"What?"

The caller sensed a scratch of irritation in that word. Slowly, he replied, "Err, is this a bad time?"

"You - hold on. You're the one from AmmuNation, aren't you?"

"Err… yeah. Are you busy?" he asked hesitantly. "Um… your err, order has just arrived."

Claude laughed in relief and cracked into a wide grin. Just when he thought his screwed up life could not sink any lower...

"Exactly who I'm looking for! Listen, do you have anything to take down a boat?"

For a moment, the caller remained dumb.

"What? Come on, you must have got something in there!"

"Okay. The easiest way to do it is to blow it up with a rocket launcher."

"Man, you know I'm tight on budget!"

"Oh."

Another minute of pause.

"Don't be so uptight. All right, how about some grenades? I'll give you twenty percent cut. Just chuck 'em in and I assure you it'll destroy the hell -"

"No! No, I can't! The ship has got to sink! What if it didn't? It'll just float and drift off the coast…"

"Well, you could always fake a collision. You know, jack a boat or something -"

"Yes, I figured that out much myself too."

"Huh? Then why'd you ask me for?"

Claude barked sarcastically.

"It's the Cartel vessel. You know those little boats don't do much to it."

There was another awkward pause. And Claude shattered it.

"You know what, if you can't help, don't bother. I'll look for -"

"Hey," the man said suddenly, "this ain't personal, right?"

He saw it coming. Claude wanted to get out of the conversation quickly. He had wanted to avoid coming to this matter from the start.

"No. No, it isn't."

"Yeah? Okay, that's cool. I can't help much but I can tell you of 8-Ball. You know him, right?"

8-Ball – the lanky bald guy of African American descent who became his first companion on rough streets.

"See him, all right? He'll have a way around it. And uh… good luck, man."

The call ended.

Claude sighed. So, no matter how he planned or who he asked, it all came back to 8-Ball. Even the owner of AmmuNation who got hundreds of armaments contacts up his buddy list refer him to 8-Ball. He did not resent 8-Ball, not one bit. Truthfully, the guy was nice, yes, but he was a businessman – a very strict one, as a matter of fact. And in business, money is always first and foremost.

And it was money that Claude lack.

Damn.

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"Yeah, I'm coming!"

The door bell rang again.

"Shit, I told you I'm coming!"

The wooden door swung open so abruptly that the hinges were about to come off.

"What's the matter with you, man? I told - oh, holy cow - why, Claude Speed! It has been forever!"

They both shook hands and backed into the dingy room. The bald man swept pieces of old newspapers from a stool and gestured Claude to take a seat. Meanwhile, he cleared a metal working table where scraps of copper and used wires were strewn on. There was even a scorch mark at the corner.

"Hold on. Just cleaning up… done."

8-Ball pulled another bench out and sat down opposite of his visitor. His keen eyes scanned the man.

"Hey, have you lost weight or something?"

He grinned jovially.

He had never seen Claude for quite sometime. After all, this was the man he broke out of imprisonment and embrace freedom with.

Claude was arrested for robbery and several other felonies which included manslaughter, kidnappings, possessing illicit weapons and carjacking. He would have spent the rest of his day behind bars…

If the gang members did not show up and bust them out.

Well, actually, they had no idea who the members were and their objective was definitely not them.

They wanted to take a geezer who was transported in the same van as them to prison. And since they left the door open conveniently, 8-Ball and Claude decided to make good use of the opportunity. Minutes later, the Callahan Bridge blew up and not a single soul noticed the disappearance of two inmates-to-be. That day was the marking of a newly created bond between two wanted criminals. Claude made a good pal and God knows how rare a decent man comes by in this side of life.

8-Ball roused from his reverie. His friend seemed to have sunk into a stupor either.

"Claude, buddy, are you all right?"

8-Ball snapped his fingers in front of the fairer man.

He started and mumbled, "Sorry."

Claude looked more solemnly at the bald guy. "I need your help in a mission."

A shallow laughter resonated in the room.

"Now. I can only provide bombs and such. 'Cause that's what I do. You know that, don't you?

Claude nodded.

"And I don't do tiny pops like grenades."

Claude nodded again.

"All right. So you're after the real thing."

"It's a Cartel ship. I need to sink it."

"And it's nothing personal?"

"God!"

Claude stood up very quickly; the bench he was initially sitting on fell back with a loud thump.

"Calm down, man! Don't mean to offend you or anything."

Claude went and leaned against the plank wall. Folding his arms, he stared resolutely at the wilted begonia through the window pane, forcing his chaotic mind to refocus relentlessly. This was just another mission.

So treat it like another mission!

Taking a deep breath, he spoke tentatively.

"It's a mission I'm working on. I need the explosives."

8-Ball raised his eyebrows.

"They aren't cheap."

Claude strode over to 8-Ball.

"How much?"

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Claude racked his brain for names of debtors who owed him large sum of money. He had already crossed out the squatters who lived in Red Light District; they called cardboard boxes their homes and besides, the place was run by the Mafias. He could not be seen begging those people for payment. Not only was it embarrassing - imagine what would the Salvatore think should he showcase how dependant he was on penniless vagabonds openly. He just loathed it when the people he was working with view him as some tramp.

But did it really matter what they actually thought of him?

… Guess they still did.

He sighed. It seemed that he was cornered like a rat in a labyrinth. Maybe he had to swallow his pride and shamelessly stuck his hands out for cash after all.

"Damn you, 8-Ball."

$100 000. Where in the world could he lay hands on $100 000?

_You swore not to touch your savings!_

I know, he groaned. Those were for his old age… provided he had the luck to see himself wrinkling gracefully and residing contentedly by the country… or even for emergency, when they become essential for living. This life he was in was stupendously unpredictable. He would feel a lot safer and less unrest when several little zeros were enclosed in his saving book.

HON.

There was a blare of honk. Startled, Claude stared ahead - and he stared into empty air. There were no vehicles in front of him. The traffic light was already green. The sound of heavy trucks swerving from the back to the front of his car reverberated in the grimy atmosphere.

The boulevard shook somewhat and someone shouted vulgarly at him.

Even the bystanders appeared disgruntled.

_Bastards._

Three trucks with the words "Mr. Wong's Launderette" emblazoned on the sides swerved right before him. One by one they passed, forgetting that yet another car was supposed to move first. Claude punched the steering wheel.

"Damn. Of course! The Chinatown folks owe me too!"

Unheeding the change of traffic light, he too turned right and tailed the rattling trucks.

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A bell chimed as the entrance door was pushed.

"Welcome!"

Claude entered the rather unblemished launderette. A row of washing machines were arranged neatly by the paint coated brick wall. Only a few were vibrating dully. Two lean ladies of average Asian height smiled courteously at him.

"Yes, sir. Present your tag and we'll get you your clothes."

Claude leaned vaguely against the counter.

"No. I'm here to see your boss."

Their smiles faltered. One of them surveyed Claude with a furrow. Her next few words bore the faintest hue of apprehensiveness.

"I'll get Mr. Wong."

And she hurried through the door behind her.

Claude rolled his eyes all over the desolate shop, taking in every single detail of the space. His wintry eyes swept over one of the jangling dryers, a part of the treacherous canvas ceiling and a missing window glass.

"You're one of them," a voice said timidly.

Claude cocked an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You're one of them," the remaining attendant repeated more profoundly. A flare of angst a-lighted her hazel orbs. Animosity suspended thick in the air.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied nonchalantly.

"You came and rob us of our cash and equipments! What more do you want of my father?" she cried hysterically.

Two forms emerged spontaneously from the back room. A man whose several strands of hair had whitened patted the distraught girl at the small of her back, muttering something in Mandarin into her ears. Claude assumed that he was calming his daughter as the shrieks died out after a while.

"Ah Pa, he's come to take you, don't you see?" she continued frantically. She wanted to make her dear father to see some sense. It was too apparent that he was coming for him.

Claude decided to intervene.

"No, lady. I'm not after your father."

All three Chinese turned to him.

"I have something to settle with him. I won't take him away."

"Pa!"

"No, don't worry. He's the one who lent us the capital for this business. He's a good lad. Go, and don't come in here unless I tell you to."

"But -"

The other lady steered the wailing girl forcefully to the back chamber. She wrung her hands and shook her head but to no avail. The door swung shut and a click was heard.

The door was locked.

Mr. Wong approached Claude.

"You want your money back."

"I do."

The elderly man brought both lined hands to his gaunt face. Claude waited patiently for the man to speak again.

"I only have enough for the Triad's protection fee. This place was robbed only a week ago. I hope you can understand -"

"I don't give a damn to your sad story," Claude cut coldly. He flexed his fists and fixed a murderous intent on the cowering man. The latter flinched as Claude leaned closer and stuttered fragilely, "But… please understand… I don't have -"

A hand slammed hard onto the counter. Mr. Wong grimaced at the impact.

"Then give me the Triad's money!"

The old man gulped. He retreated to an antique closet adjacent to the back room's entry and took a bulky envelope from within.

"Good. You owe me a lot more than this anyway. I'll come by later for the rest."

He stowed the cash into his jacket and turned to the exit. It was then that a pair of gruff hands as thick as logs seized his collars and almost lifting him up.

"Yo, what are you doing with our money?"

_Oh shit._

Three more Triad members snarled vindictively at him. Two were swinging their baseball bats.

Claude detected a scuffle from the counter; he was not able to see as his back was facing it. He could only presume that the owner of this falling apart launderette had vacated the scene.

_That's good._

"So, you're a Triad huh?"

The guy holding him bared a set of rusty teeth.

"You'll pay for the money you took. Double."

Claude flashed a scowl.

"Bite me."

He lifted both legs and kicked the man in the middle. Both tore away from each other in opposite directions, sending the gangster into a swirling washing machine and Claude over the counter. The other members rounded up around their new adversary.

A bat swayed heavily at him forcing Claude to duck. After that very brief encounter, he heaved himself agilely onto the counter and flung his legs to their jaws. All three thudded to the floor. Claude raced to the door but a figure was blocking his way.

"No one messes with me," the man barked menacingly - a vein or two bulged at his temple.

_What an ass._

He lunged forward and aimed a punch at the assassin. Claude dodged it lazily and twisted the man's arm around his neck, rendering him immobile.

"Stop twitching or I swear I'll kill you."

Claude pulled the arm more tightly above his shoulder, suffocating the Triad member.

"Or maybe I'll just snap your clavicle -"

BANG.

Pain.

His right shoulder seared unbearably forcing him to unhand his captive immediately. It took him two seconds to fully grasp what had just befallen in that blink of time. Staggering, he was denied the chance to steady himself when a powerful kick landed in his stomach, knocking the wind out of the lungs. The force threw him over a slightly dented washing machine before crashing into the glass window.

Several pedestrians gasped and screamed as Claude hit the walkway unceremoniously. He clenched his jaw and picked himself up hastily from the ground. A sharp jolt in his ribs warned him to move less recklessly. He squinted and heard a faraway siren approximately two blocks away.

The cops were coming.

He cast his eyes shiftily about him. The Triads had already left through Mr. Wong's Launderette's back room. Onlookers clasped their hands over their hung-opened gaps. And the siren yowled louder with each passing second.

Cursing his luck, Claude traipsed quickly to his car and drove off.

_Damn…_

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It was already night. He could see the waxing moon in the dark, azure sky. Stars like millions of cars' headlights in the city twinkled in the heavens. Claude's eyes were glazed as he sat in his car, pondering on his next move. The stabbing ache in his shoulder had yet to subside. He tried not to think of his injury for it tended to come in full blow whenever he did.

_The money._

His left hand raked the lining of his jacket. Something solid protruded from the pocket; the bulky envelope was still there. He heaved a sigh.

RING. RING.

Wearily, he reached for his mobile phone on the passenger's seat. Through the dimness, he discerned the caller's identity as the name blinked on the screen.

"8-Ball?"

"Hey Claude! Got the money?"

Yes, it was 8-Ball indeed. And he asked for the money.

"Got it."

"All right! You got 100K in a day!"

At this, Claude's spirit dampened considerably. He did not know how much he had - he did not actually count the wad of cash note by note.

"Wait, I'm not sure how much I have."

"You what?"

Claude tore the phone from his ear and held it at arm's length. Did he have to yell his throat out right now?

His mistake. He could have shut up about it, count the money later and search for more if they did not suffice.

_Shit._

He pushed the device to his ear again. It seemed that the bomb expert had finally cooled down.

"We can settle it later. Where are you? Why aren't you back yet?"

"I can't. The cops are… on the move. I… just can't… damn…"

The wound prickled once more.

"Are you all right?"

The loss of blood was not to be negligible. It may have clotted already give the hours he had been off road. It was a very common injury anyway; to be shot is basically something inevitable to a hired gunman. And this one was superficial. He would never die out of it… If only he had the tools and medication to extract the bullet from the flesh…

"Where are you, Claude?"

He looked around the area. There was no signboard to tell him where he was. But judging by an eminent eat-out centre at the bend of the street, he knew his location fairly well.

"St. Mark. By the bistro."

"Okay. Stay there. I'll get you."

Claude breathed more freely. Someone would be coming for him; he was so certain of it. This time, it was someone to be trusted… someone whom he could call a friend…

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"Oh geez!"

A single figure darted to the stationary car outside a darkened stall. He crossed to the driver's seat and peered through the wound down window. Despite the semi-darkness revolving around St. Mark, he managed to make out the outline of a person leaning against the seat.

"You look pretty beaten up. Claude?"

He opened the door and jarred the man.

"Oh, man!"

Traces of dried blood stained his hands.

"We'd better get you out of here."

He picked the unconscious man and laid him in the rear of his Bobcat. Remorse brimmed; he only wanted the man to get some cash to cover the expenses of the bomb. It was not very troublesome to get that much of money, or at least to Claude Speed. The last thing he would have pictured the assassin was him horizontal after nicking some Benjamin off some unlucky dudes.

"You better live if that's the last thing you do," 8-Ball said thickly to the lying man.

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"You're awake."

A bald man was standing behind a metal working table, fiddling with several multicoloured wires. The strands apparently trailed to an alloy-made suitcase placed by the bandaged man's bedside. Claude sat up.

"How long have I been off?"

"Only four hours."

"Oh, shit."

He swung his legs down and groped for his shirt.

"Good thing too. I got the bomb fully functioning while you were snoozing," he tossed an affectionate gaze on the suitcase. "She's all set to go ka-boom!" He chuckled while surveying Claude who was now buckling his shoes.

"Thanks, man. So, how d'you use this?"

He edged nearer to the suitcase. After prodding it lightly with the tip of his foot, he took it by the handle and rested it on the bed. He then ran his fingers along the perimeter in search for its clasp.

"Oh, no, no, no… you don't want to open it here, trust me."

Claude withdrew his hands instinctively.

"Besides, you don't have to know how to detonate it."

8-Ball grabbed the case and made for the door.

"What?"

Claude, stunned by his sudden action, exclaimed loudly, "What do you mean?"

His question went ignored. Seconds later, Claude heard the slamming of a car's door.

_Crap._

He, too, rushed outside, but instead of entering the Bobcat, he gripped the darker man's arm.

"You're not coming, 8-Ball," he said pointedly.

"I am, as a matter of fact. And you're not stopping me. So get in or we'll lose -"

"Damn it, man! I don't need you to baby sit me. I can do this alone!"

"You're injured, Claude!"

"Don't treat me like a sissy."

They glared daggers at each other. Their façade only softened somewhat when Claude removed his hold on 8-Ball and the latter shifted his gaze. In a much more controlled manner, 8-Ball spoke, "All right. I understand. But like it or not, I'll have to come - no, listen for a sec, man. This gadget is no child's play. You want to blow a Cartel ship, this little mama can do it one shot. Her explosive power can even sink a quarter of an armada of warships."

Claude, although unconvinced, could only purse his lips. 8-Ball correctly interpreted the silence as a disgruntled approval.

"Now get in quick, we're wasting time! And I'm driving!"

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It was already dawn.

A red Bobcat screeched to a halt behind a dilapidated warehouse. Despite the early hours, Portland Docks was not totally void of human. Silhouettes of people were concentrated to a gargantuan vessel. Claude deduced that they were standing guard for it; they were behaving too stiffly that even from such a distant it was impossible to assume them as citizens taking a brisk morning walk.

They both crept around the building to get a better view. 8-Ball handed a sniper rifle to Claude; he swung it over his left shoulder and hunched low behind a drum of oil. 8-Ball gestured towards the crowd and whispered, "Those are Cartels?"

Claude observed the gaudily dressed men.

"Yeah," he said distractedly. Something pinched his senses and he looked around the seemingly empty area.

"Hey," 8-Ball muttered, "come on, there's no time for sight-seeing!"

"Shh…"

Claude pulled out a silencer and fixed it on his pistol. Crouching a little, he tiptoed sideways to another derelict store house. He leaned against the wall, head tilted towards an ajar door. There were moving shadows in there. One… two… only two Cartels - he glimpsed upon their signature crocodile teeth adorned hat when 8-Ball was commenting on the guards.

Deftly, he knelt on one knee and turned 180 degree, positioning himself at the foot of the door. Two noiseless shots were fired.

And two motionless forms dropped onto the dusty ground.

Claude tucked the pistol at his waistband and crouched beside 8-Ball again.

"Rule number two; annihilate every enemy that might interfere with the course of the mission."

"Oh yeah? What's number one?"

Claude, having dislodged the silencer earlier, installed it on the sniper rifle.

"Get the job done."

The droning sound of something heavy being lugged and the jingling of thick iron chains snatched their attention back to the Cartel ship. A wooden ramp as wide as two Enforcers was hauled up onto the deck. As they watched the progress, a small number of Cartels dispersed and climbed up a rope ladder. The rest lingered behind; they formed a loose fortification by the pier, barricaded by cargo containers.

"Well, those dung-face have got some brains. They're trying to cover the maximum scope of this area. That dude by the ladder, I'm guessing he's there to alert his pals when we break into their territory. What d'you suggest - whoa, whoa! You're not going to just barge in there, are you?"

Claude loaded his sniper and the bullet shaft clicked shut. An Uzi lay by the sole of his shoe.

"All right," he swung the rifle over his shoulder again, "take this," he pushed the Uzi into 8-Ball's hand. "You'll need it."

The bald man looked disgusted at the idea of "borrowing" ammunition.

"Man, I'm a dangerous dude! I don't need this thing! See?" he flicked the hem of his vest to reveal a belt of grenades.

"That is… well," Claude was lost for words.

_This man is dead meat._

"It's not smart, 8-Ball," he finished simply.

"Man, get real! I deal with bombs! What d'you expect?"

Claude shoved the Uzi more forcefully to his hand.

"You need a shorter range weapon. And lose a few of those. If they shot you, you're done for."

"How are you going to pass through those people?"

The assassin cast a hasty glance over their spot. What he needed was a place where he could shoot with precision but at the same time, remain well out of their vision field. But at such barren place… it would be a miracle to have found a perfect spot.

A triumphant gleam sparked in his eyes.

"Up there."

8-Ball trailed Claude's index finger's direction and eventually, he saw it - a retractable metal stairway.

Comprehension dawned on him. "Okay. You go up and set your sniper's nest. I'll move when I hear your first shot."

Claude dashed quietly to the stairs and made his way up to the roof top.

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The clinking and clanking of his boots against the metal steps escorted him up to the upper landing. The moment he reached there, he knew this mission was already in the bag. The location he was at overlook the Cartel liner directly; it was perpendicular to his view. He could see clearly every one of them on board - what they were doing, who they were talking to - everything.

He perched himself behind a heap of gunny sacks. Eyes still intent on his target, he set the sniper and looked through the focusing lens.

"All right… where are you?"

He located 8-Ball behind a trailer.

"Let's do it."

He summed up the number of Cartels hiding behind the cargo containers.

Only six…

Shooting them from ground would prove tricky considering those humongous shields in front of them…. But it would be far easier from elevated floor. He aimed for the one closest to 8-Ball.

And he fired.

The man dropped dead.

AAAH!

It was a ruckus below. 8-Ball whizzed ahead to the corpse. Wasting no time, Claude shot the one on 8-Ball's left, then the one on his right, and proceeded to finish off all remaining three; they had spotted the darker man and had already directed their guns towards him.

BANG.

Another gunshot?

Claude's palpitating heart skipped a beat. He knew it was not him. In truth, it could not be him; he had his silencer on. He scoured the area for his mission's partner.

Claude breathed again.

8-Ball was still well. Only he had his Uzi out.

_Shit, the one by the rope ladder!_

A bloody body was lying crumpled near the foot of the ladder. It seemed that he had barely reached the opening above when 8-Ball shot him in the head.

Claude cursed inwardly. He was careless. He did not take every little detail into account. He did not scrutinize the enemy's arrangement and position. He could have single-handedly sent 8-Ball to his grave…

Getting a grip of himself, his eyes followed 8-Ball who was already working his way up the rope.

And it suddenly hit him.

The shot might have prevented the particular Cartel from blabbing to the rest about this uninvited presence. But remember, that Uzi had not been equipped with a silencer. Someone was bound to notice that din.

It did not take long for him to know he was right.

A battalion of men in typical cyan Hawaiian shirts were headed towards the only entry to the ship - 8-Ball's way.

He fixed his aim at the front liners and fired.

Three stumbled to the deck.

The rest scattered and took cover behind pipes and wooden cartons.

_Still easy…_

He took them out one by one, starting from those he deemed posed the most threat to 8-Ball. The Cartels were flabbergasted; they knew a professional gunman was behind this and he was concealing himself somewhere in close proximity. Most of their fallen comrades were shot from the same direction, so the shooter must be either alone or are all grouped in one specific spot, though it was very unlikely for the latter.

Claude showed no mercy. Each time a head perked above, he fired, leaving absolutely no chance for them to pinpoint exactly where he was. They may get the rough idea, but as long as 8-Ball finished this quickly, he would be fine.

Claude refilled the empty bullet shaft. Glancing back and forth between the sniper and 8-Ball, he half-heartedly prayed that no one would notice the suspicious absence of bombardment.

But they did.

Half of the previously cowering members pelted to 8-Ball. Claude panicked somewhat. How could he shoot so many people simultaneously?

They skulked by the opening, waiting to snare the unwary prey…

_Eat this!_

Claude shot at a red barrel. It caught flame before exploding amidst the frenetic Cartels, killing and torching them that nobody became aware of a new arrival on board. 8-Ball sneaked towards the controlling room. Just to make sure, Claude shot yet another barrel of what he suspected containing illegal crude oil. It burst into flames and ejected high into the sky, splattering the crew and Cartels with torrid oil.

It was inferno.

And they deserved it.

He stopped the shooting and watched the pandemonium. Ribbons of golden fire submerged the upper section of the accursed ship. Frantic cries and screams were music to his ears. This unwashed blood on his hands would be the satisfaction of his career… and life… Ah, vengeance was just so sweet. How he longed for this day… it just so happened that the Mafia and he held the same intention. Now they could all rejoice at the destruction of the Columbian Cartels.

In a few minutes, a single figure rushed out of the deck and clambered down the rope ladder. Claude raised himself slightly over the sacks.

_A little more… just a little more… come on!_

And 8-Ball was back on firm land.

He sprinted towards the Bobcat. Claude glared at the ship.

A dim growl of gushing hot air permeated Portland Docks, followed by more piercing cries and -

Fire, ash and lighted debris were spewed in every direction in a radius of a hundred meter. Waves rose high, curtaining the wrecked ship with sheets of salt water; it fell back with such momentum, splashing viciously on the docks. The vessel halved with its middle sinking gradually into the sea. Great gurgling thundered the area as what remnants left was swallowed into it. The heat of the explosion scratched Claude's very skin. Finally, it was over… he had personally seen to it…the last of the Columbian Cartel… With the SPANK gone, it must be near impossible for them to make a comeback.

"Hello."

Claude turned.

Too late; he was knocked off his feet when the assailant swept her legs in a circular motion. Claude blinked and spotted the very familiar dark brown tresses. He jumped to his feet and threw punches at the woman. She, however, managed to grip his forearm while avoiding oncoming pummels. Mustering her strength, she pounded her flat palm hard against Claude's right shoulder.

The assassin groaned sharply in pain.

Caught off guard, she hurled him down despite the difference in weight. Not quite satisfied, she kicked him in the ribs and stomped heartlessly on his shoulder with her heel.

Claude spluttered blood.

"Long time, no see? Is this greeting appropriate enough?"

She dug her foot deeper into the man.

He gritted his teeth, biting back screams of agony. He did not want to grant her the pleasure by showing how much suffering she could afflict him.

"Go to hell," he choked.

"Ah, do you dream of sending me there?"

She gazed at the ruined ship.

"You think you're a big man. To destroy my property and naively think that this will end my reign in Liberty."

She squinted at the heaving man spitefully. To his enormous surprise, she grinned.

"Well, we only produce SPANK here recently. The stock we keep is somewhere else, far from the clutches of the damned Mafia. We don't really lose much. But you, baby -"

She removed her leg and kicked him roughly to his side.

Cringing, he gasped and breathed, "Damn you, Catalina."

A high-pitched, inhumane laughter which chilled him to his marrow echoed to the space.

"Baby, what is this? You, injured on a mission? Oh, I know you're wounded," she spat at the sight of the man's dilated pupils in surprise, "You slung the sniper over your left shoulder instead of your usual right. And I was right, wasn't I?"

Claude clutched his shoulder. Crimson blood seeped through his bandages and tainted his hand.

"Well, I win again. I'll see you 'round."

Her glinted eyes were the last he saw of her. He nudged himself into a sitting position, still panting heavily. A couple more steps and she would be gone… It was just like an accidental playback of that very day; she, leaving him on the ground - broke and lost. She, giving him hope of possible payback and revenge when he knew fully well how she would ruthlessly snatch them back, plunging him to the bottommost fissure of despair.

He hated himself for this.

It had not changed… she had not changed…

And he certainly hadn't.


End file.
